


Lonely roads we have always known

by RavenXavier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-13 07:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18027251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: He could see it, the moment when Jonathan started to genuinely get suspicious - or perhaps it was worry. He stiffened, his face losing a bit of its colour, and he whispered “alone” in a soft, incredulous voice before gazing back at Martin, careful and piercing.“You’re not a Lukas,” he said again with a frown.“I work with them.”(Martin Blackwood gave himself to the Lonely. He's content about it too. It's why it seems unfair that fate keeps pushing him back towards the Eye, the Archives... and more specifically, towards its Archivist.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help it in the end, I needed it to share it with you, even if it's just the beginning. I've written more than half of the story by now, so - it should go well and I should finish it. I'll try to upload regularly, if you guys like it? 
> 
> Please, for the sake of this story, ignores any firm timelines - mainly because I still have no idea what's the timeframe for most of the events happening in canon, so I just... twisted things a bit to fit. 
> 
> Thanks endlessly to [ HermaeusMora ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaeusMora/pseuds/HermaeusMora) for agreeing to beta-read the story (and also give lovely comments as I write along). The encouragements and editing are both fully appreciated. 
> 
> The title comes "boulevard of broken dreams" from Green Day and, listen - I know it sounds like a cliché song? But LISTEN TO IT AND TELL ME THIS DOESN'T FIT MARTIN (...and Jon. Probably. A bit.) 
> 
> Anyway, I really really hope you guys enjoy.  
> PS: i'm bad at tags. If at any time during the story you think more tags should be added, PLEASE let me know.

Martin’s steps echoed in the Institute’s empty corridor. It was lovely - there were very few places you could feel as peacefully lonely as an old, sacred building. He walked slowly, unhurried to reach Elias’ office, humming to himself and taking in the familiar walls and portraits of patrons hung there. He wished Peter would stop sending him to pass along the Lukases’ messages for the Institute. He disliked having to see, talk, or, in fact, interact at all with Elias Bouchard, but he supposed it was exactly _why_ Peter kept sending him instead of just coming himself. It was a very unsubtle way of reminding Martin of what he’d left behind to come… _work_ for Peter; that is - nothing good at all.

 

“You’ve taken your time,” said Elias when he finally entered quietly. He didn’t spare Martin a glance. “No need to close the door. Jon will be here in a few minutes.”

 

“I should probably wait for him to get here to say what I need to say then.”

 

“I already know what you’re going to say,” Elias told him with a tinge of annoyance in his voice that pleased Martin more than it should have. “You’ll have to tell Peter he can’t expect me to receive his little pet anytime he wants to utter a complaint. Running an Institute is a busy activity.”

 

“Sure,” Martin nodded agreeably. “Must take time to have to constantly hire new people because the other ones disappeared, died, or - whatever.”

 

Elias didn’t bother answering to that. Instead, he grabbed his phone and pressed a button to make a call. Whoever was on the other end of it must have been stalling, because Elias’ eye twitched, though his voice was as smooth and collected as ever when he finally spoke:

 

“Jon, when I told you I needed you as soon as possible in my office, I expected you to understand that you should come here _immediately._ ” There was a pause. Elias sighed. “Sasha and Tim are as highly competent as you are, I’m sure they can and, in fact, will gladly spend a few minutes without you just fine.” Another pause. “Right. Immediately. _Thank you,_ Jonathan.”

 

When he hung up, Martin offered him a grin. “Are you regretting having killed Gertrude already?”

 

“He’ll be a fine Archivist,” Elias said sharply. “Probably better than Gertrude ever was. He’s merely short-sighted at the moment.” He gave Martin an appraising look. “If the Lukases have any… _doubts_ about Jonathan Sims…”

 

Martin shrugged. “All they care about is that he’s trying to look into things that don’t concern him. Which, I mean - I guess goes to prove he is rather fitting for your God.”

 

Martin tried not to sound too condescending at that. Peter had spent a long time pressing upon him the need to stay polite and on good terms with the Eye and its Avatars, at least as long as their goals aligned, which they always seemed to do, one way or another. Still; he didn’t think there was anything that impressive about the Beholding and couldn’t say he cared much for their way of… operating. He very much did not care at all.

 

Elias must have been probing inside his head, because he opened his mouth as if to say something, but then abruptly turned his eyes to the still open door, expectant. Less than a few seconds later, Martin heard footsteps coming from the corridor. He did not stiffen nor relax, merely turned just a little to catch the Archivist’s entrance.

 

And what an entrance it was; Jonathan Sims did not enter as much as he rushed in, looking utterly annoyed at the fact he’d been summoned. He was a thin, brown-skinned man, slightly shorter than Martin, with dark unkempt hair stricken with early grey, clothes that belonged to the 1950s, and square glasses that enhanced both lovely black eyes and the circles underneath them. Martin’s first, utterly irrational and idiotic thought was that he was certainly much more beautiful than Gertrude had ever been.

 

He could have sworn he’d heard Elias’ contempt echoing at the back of his head.

 

“Well, I’m here,” said Jonathan Sims, his voice sharp and clipped. “What is it, Elias?”

 

“We have a guest, Jon,” Elias said calmly. “This is Martin Blackwood.”

 

“Hi,” said Martin pleasantly.

 

Jonathan Sims blinked at him, his gaze passing over him without lingering at all, and he said: “Right, well - Hello.” while already looking back at Elias expectantly.

 

The utter and complete dismissal sent a lovely shiver down Martin’s spine - a few years back, he would have felt atrocious and self-conscious about whatever he might have already done wrong. He couldn’t help but be appreciative. At least the new Archivist didn’t _pretend_ to care for people. That was a step up, as far as Martin was concerned. Better to know immediately where you stood with people, rather than have the knowledge forced upon you later.

 

“Martin here is… Peter Lukas’... _assistant,_ ” Elias said.

 

“Are you?” Jonathan asked, his eyes darting again upon Martin. This time, they stayed on him, the hunger for knowledge barely hidden. “We’ve been having a very hard time trying to get a hold of -”

 

“Yes,” Elias cut him off with a sigh. “That is exactly why Martin is here. I thought I had… Mentioned to you before there was no need to insist on losing time over the case of Miss Herne.”

 

“I told her we would be looking into her statement, as we do for everybody,” Jonathan said in a clipped voice.

 

“And it’s lovely,” said Martin quickly before Elias could speak on his behalf again. “Truly. Very professional of you, Mr Sims. Only you see, the Lukases are still grieving over the abrupt death of Ethan, and everybody is quite… bothered by all those… incessants calls you’ve been making. And mails. And, um, letters?”

 

“I… understand,” said Jonathan in a tone of voice that led Martin to believe he did not at all. “However we only have a few questions that won’t take more than -”

 

“Jonathan,” Elias cut him off sharply. Jonathan’s mouth twitched before he shut it close. “I think Martin’s message is pretty clear. You’re to leave the Lukases alone, and this is effective immediately. Understood?”

 

“ _Fine,”_ Jonathan spat. “And I suppose Mr Blackwood here won’t care to ask his boss about an incident that happened on his boat and the disappearance of a certain Shawn Kelly?”

 

“Pe - Mr Lukas is often out of the country,” Martin told him. “I’m afraid he’s very hard to contact.”

 

He didn’t know who Shawn Kelly was, or what incident Jonathan Sims may be referring to. He supposed there must have been a lot of statements, down there, regarding Peter and his boat. He was also very sure that Peter would not breathe a word about it, unless the Archivist compulsed it out of him - and that would be a pretty severe offense, probably. In any case, Jonathan Sims looked rather unimpressed by Martin’s excuse and his contrite air.

 

“Of course,” he said, his coldness hiding rather poorly the frustration in his eye. “Well, was that all? There are other statements downstairs waiting for me.”

 

“You can go,” Elias said. “Only be sure to leave at the same time Sasha and Tim do tonight, will you? I’m pretty sure you’re paid well enough to have a flat to come to in the evenings.”

 

His reprimand had an almost paternal, gentle accent to it that abruptly reminded Martin of Peter. He watched as Jonathan’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly, listened to him mutter “Well, there _is_ a lot of work to do”, and something bittersweet and old he could barely name washed over him as Jonathan left, his shoulders eased ever so slightly by Elias’ last remark. Nobody was immune to this, deep down; the feeling that someone out there cared, even a little, about your well-being. Elias had obviously learnt a lot from Peter; or perhaps it was easier to groom a new, ignorant young man into what he wished the Archivist to become rather than an old lady who’d had the position before he himself had the favour of his God.

 

“It _is_ certainly easier with Jon,” Elias commented as if Martin had spoken out loud.

 

“This wasn’t for you,” Martin said, but there was no heat to it.

 

“I trust you’re satisfied, nonetheless.”

 

“I’m sure the Lukases will be, if he obeys you.”

 

“He will.”

 

“Great,” said Martin, though to be honest he didn’t feel much like pretending he cared either way.

 

“Please tell Peter he really ought to pay me a visit himself, next time.”

 

Martin smiled, cold and petty. “I would Elias, but I don’t work for you anymore, do I?”

 

He did not give Elias the courtesy of waiting for his answer before disappearing.

 

\------------------

 

“Is he interesting, then?” Asked Peter later that evening, appearing in the middle of Martin’s flat as if he belonged there.

 

Martin shrugged. “He’s intense about his job, certainly.” He glanced at Peter. “Elias misses you, I think.”

 

“Of course he does,” Peter smiled with satisfaction. He ran his cold fingers through Martin’s hair. “Have you?”

 

“All the time,” Martin deadpanned. Peter laughed, and squeezed his shoulder.

 

“Good boy,” he said, and his grin turned larger as he felt the shiver running down Martin’s spine. “If you haven’t forgotten how, keep an eye on the Archivist, will you? I trust Elias to know best, of course, but he did have to kill the last one.”

 

“I don’t think Jonathan Sims will try to burn the Archives,” Martin pointed out.

 

“Ha, you never know,” Peter hummed. “Some would have said the same about Gertrude Robinson twenty-five or thirty years ago.”

 

If there were people who had thought as such, Martin was judging them pretty hard; Gertrude Robinson had been a cold, ruthless woman who cared for very little apart from ‘the greater good’. He leaned away from Peter’s touch silently and Peter let go easily enough - as soon as his hand was gone, Martin felt the lack of it rush over his head and he licked his lips.

 

“A kiss?” suggested Peter.

 

“No, thank you,” he muttered, stiffening slightly.

 

“I thought you might say that.” Peter nodded like the rejection was just as sweet as if Martin had said yes. He winked at him. “Well then. We’re up to date with everything else, I assume?”

 

“Yes,” Martin said. “All the administrative papers from your last travels have been taken care of, and Charlie is expecting you next Monday for -”

 

Peter waved his hand and then patted Martin’s cheek. “You know those things bore me, I’m just glad I have you now,” he told him, grinning that cold, satisfied grin of his again. “I couldn’t hope for a better assistant,” he added, which was just gratuitous and made Martin roll his eyes - though, despite his best efforts, the praise got to his stomach anyway and it twisted pleasantly.

 

“I’ll keep an eye on the Archivist,” he said at last. “I guess.”

 

Peter nodded again, bumped his nose as if he was three or perhaps a dog, and then he was gone again. Martin stared at the empty space he’d left behind, and pondered for a moment whether he wished Peter had said “good boy” again or not. Eventually, he decided it didn’t matter. It was like the kiss; these days, the lack of it was as good, if not better, than actually getting it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a huge thanks to [ HermaeusMora ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaeusMora/pseuds/HermaeusMora) for their awesome editing and comments. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter?

Martin waited a month before he decided to check on Jonathan Sims. He hadn’t particularly tried to go against Peter’s wishes, but it also grated on him quietly to have to be around the Archivist again, no matter the fact that Jonathan Sims wasn’t _the_ Archivist. Or, well, he was, only he didn’t know anything about what it entailed, and the minute he’d get it… Anyway, Martin was pretty sure he shouldn’t have cared so much; everything else had been nicely dulled nowadays, but somehow thinking too long about Gertrude Robinson and the Institute irked him.

 

It proved ridiculously hard to catch him outside of the building. Martin decided it was probably because of the silver worms roaming around. If he listened very attentively, he could hear them; a distant song, barely audible, that spoke of belonging and homes. He ignored it easily, and waited across the street, on the bench he used to sit at when it was sunny outside, back in the day, to eat lunch. He’d always eaten alone then, and pretended he didn’t care, watching over the people going in and out of the Institute, the ones in the cafés and restaurants around, the ones who passed in front of him, chatting, laughing, crying. He still did that now, and felt pleasantly invisible and utterly lonely.

 

Jonathan Sims appeared only once in the afternoon, sitting stiffly on the steps of the Institute to have a smoke, and looking very guilty about it - was it the cigarette, or the fact he was taking a break at all? He looked around for awhile, his gaze curious and attentive, and for a brief moment his eyes met Martin’s and Martin raised his eyebrows, wondering if Jonathan was actually _seeing_ him, that is, just as much as he was seeing all the other people here. But after a beat he moved his head elsewhere, and a minute later he was cursing loudly at the ground - the worms again, no doubt - and went back inside briskly, his face closed off.

 

When night started to fall, Jonathan had not reappeared. Martin hesitated. Glanced at the window where he knew Elias’ office was, and wondered if this was worth it. But he’d spent the whole day on that bench, and frankly, it seemed a waste to leave after having seen so little. So he curled his hand and let himself be carried into the fog, his eyes fluttering close. He was there a second and also an eternity, embraced and rejected all at once, alone the way no other human being would ever feel alone. Then, he opened his eyes again, and he was in the Archives.

 

He stilled. He hadn’t come back here since… He always met Elias in his office, that is. There’d been no point in coming back down there, after everything. He certainly didn’t want to see Gertrude Robinson ever again if he could help it, and It wasn’t like he knew any of the new assistants. Even if he had, what would he have said? He stared for a while at everything, walking quietly among the desks and boxes full of statements. Nothing much had changed at all, really. On instinct, he picked a random file and opened it. He read the first few lines, and whispered: “Discarded.” before putting it back in the box it belonged to. He’d really liked the discarded ones.

 

“Sasha? Tim? Is that you?” called out Jonathan Sims’s voice from somewhere behind him.

 

Martin turned on his heels, genuinely surprised. Had he been so sloppy as to let himself be heard?

 

Jonathan entered the room with a frown. He was holding a tape recorder which was still on between his hands, and he looked everywhere with a suspicious, haunted look that stopped once more a second too long on Martin before moving on. After an entire minute, he chuckled tiredly and muttered: “Right, right, get a grip Jon. Nobody’s here. No worms, no Jane Prentiss, nobody.” He exhaled softly, and then looked down and seemed to remember the tape recorder.

 

“End recording,” he only said, and pushed the button off before casting another look around.

 

All the while, Martin watched, quiet and invisible, barely daring to breath. Under the dim light of the Archives, Jonathan looked both more handsome and more tired than ever, which really shouldn’t have been Martin’ focus at all. He was also - alone, far from Elias’ dubious care, and without assistants around, he exuded a kind of quiet, deep loneliness that made Martin’s heart pound in his chest. It was the sort of loneliness that told him that nobody was expecting Jonathan anywhere else; there was no family, no particular friends, not even a pet. It was - tantalizing. Dizzying, almost. It was rare to stumble upon someone so utterly _alone._ For one brief, hungry moment, he _wanted him._ Only it wasn’t really him, it was something much, much bigger than him and the fog slided across the room like a snake, curling up around Jonathan’s ankles, and Jonathan shuddered, his lips turning downwards, and then Martin blinked and thought _He’s the Archivist._

 

Everything stilled. Jonathan’s eyes drilled on him, sharp and intent.

 

“Is someone here?” he asked again, and this time, his voice was quietly firm and tense.

 

Something almost imperceptible but painfully, horribly familiar to Martin tingled in his throat. It was weak, so weak, and easy to bite down certainly, but it acted as well as any cold shower might have to bring him back to reality. He fell into the fog without another glance for Jonathan Sims, his chest tight, and wished more than ever that working for the Lonely slowly erased memories just like working with some other Fears did.

 

\----------------------

 

He came home to his empty flat, made himself a cup of tea, warm enough to remind him how cold he felt, and put on some low, melancholic music, before laying on his couch and staring at the ceiling.

 

Above his head, he could hear the noisy, happy sounds of his neighbours - a big family, like most residents here. A delicious and simple way to remind himself he was alone, as well as ideal to feed his god. By the end of the evening, he knew that the happy chatting would have died down entirely; the children would be on their electronics, or in bed and wishing they could be hugged; the mother would be losing herself in her tv shows, craving for something she would never get, and the father would quietly wonder if perhaps the emptiness in his chest meant he should leave all of this little world behind.

 

Martin would feel relaxed enough to fall into a peaceful, quiet sleep.

 

He did not think of the Institute, nor Jonathan Sims, nor anything about his past. He listened as the silence settled in, uneasy and thrumming under his neighbours’ skin, and let out a gentle breath when the youngest boy started to cry in his bed, hugging his blanket and shushed by his older brother. _It’s alright_ , he wanted to murmur to him - perhaps he was. _It’s alright, Harry. Nobody cares for you, as nobody cared for me. But it’s so lovely, not to care in return. It’s so easy._

 

Around midnight, Martin finally got up to go to bed. Between his bedroom and bathroom’s door, there was another. It was bright yellow, and shouldn’t have been here at all.

 

Martin passed in front of it, and ignored it entirely.

 

\----------------------

 

Martin didn’t exactly care, but he found it rather odd that Peter didn’t _either_ when he told him about Jane Prentiss. As far as he’d gathered, the Corruption wasn’t one of their allies; and, even if they’d been, the mere fact they were very clearly going to attack the Eye’s beloved shrine should have at least provoked a bit of a reaction. But Peter merely nodded along, giving off the impression that he wasn’t listening to Martin at all, and only cast a vague, interested glance his way when Martin said:

 

“The Archivist is very, well. Lonely.”

 

“Is he? How wonderful. Maybe I will pay him a visit, at some point.”

 

“Before or after he’s eaten by worms?” Martin asked.

 

“Oh, I’m sure Elias has a plan,” Peter told him.

 

“He always does,” muttered Martin, and Peter looked at him again, more seriously this time.

 

Martin’s lips disappeared into a thin line, but it was too late; Peter moved to his desk, leant calmly against it, and brushed his hand over Martin’s chin to make him look up.

 

“Truly, Martin?” he asked, his voice deceptively sympathetic. “Do we still have to speak about it?”

 

“We certainly don’t,” Martin said, avoiding his eyes. He sighed. “I’m _sorry_ I cannot stand your creepy husband. We have a bit too much history I guess.”

 

“Um,” said Peter thoughtfully. He taped his fingers against Martin’s jaw. “You know rancor is not a quality we encourage in the family.”

 

“I’m _not_ part of the family,” Martin pointed out.

 

Peter put a hand against his chest. “Dear, dear, now that’s just hurtful. You might as well be my son, Martin, surely you know that.”

 

Martin could have pointed out that fathers usually didn’t regularly press cold lips against their son’s, their fingers wandering far below the waist. Instead, he sighed again, and changed the subject:

 

“So, we’re doing nothing? About the worms?”

 

“No point in getting our hands dirty just yet,” Peter shrugged, and he caressed Martin’s bottom lip with his thumb. Martin’s eyes fluttered, and Peter grinned before straightening up and taking a step back. “Now I can see you’re a little bit tense, today. Go do something nice, alright? I won’t need you for the next three weeks anyway, I’m leaving to Portugal.”

 

He was wrong again, but Martin didn’t mention it, since Peter had no care for the administrative side that came with his shipping… business. He just nodded, glad that he wasn’t invited to go on the journey with him. Sometimes Peter did that and sometimes, Martin foolishly agreed, despite the fact he quite disliked who he became after a few days at sea. He started to constantly be… hungry. Peter was happy enough feeding from the deep, sinking, almost philosophical loneliness that came from being surrounded by water everywhere the eye looked, but Martin’s powers leant more towards the individual, the painful, egotistical nature of loneliness that creeped into someone’s heart in the middle of a crowd. There rarely were enough people on the ship to satisfy him, especially on long trips. Besides, sea men generally _loved_ the solitude or at the very least didn’t mind it. Martin thrived on desperation, probably because it was how he, himself, had come to his powers.

 

The sea trips always ended the same way, with Martin caving in and slipping into Peter’s bed, and Peter laughing, hands and mouth cold, leaving Martin feeling beautifully alone and quite unnecessary even as fingers curled around his dick and stroked him to orgasm. Peter would whisper into his ear about neediness, and his tone would be deliciously distant and uncaring, like Martin was merely the footnote at the bottom of a page, glossed over but never properly read, let alone remembered.

 

It usually did the trick; Martin’s brain turned quiet once more. But mostly, it made him cry, silent tears he could not chase off for hours, and that was… bothersome. Too human, perhaps. It also made Peter smug, like he had a hold on Martin, the key to some weak part of himself that he hadn’t yet managed to get rid off. It was the uncomfortable knowledge that it might be even just a bit true that made Martin glad that Peter hadn’t offered today.

 

_Go do something nice._

 

Martin went for a walk. He bought pastries that he ate in a park filled with small children and loving mothers who, by the time he left, had stopped looking at him a bit suspiciously and merely looked tired and a bit sad. He went to his favourite bookshop, picked a poetry book and opened a page at random; it wasn’t bad, just a tad modern for Martin’s tastes and spoke of the quiet ache of being far away from loved ones even as they stand next to you. He had a brief thought for his mother, closed the book, and made his way out. The sun was bright, the terraces of cafés filled with people. He sat down for a while again, bought ice cream, and drank in the inane, blank conversations of two sisters who had absolutely nothing in common except genes and still felt it was important to reunite once every month because of familial bonds.

 

The younger one left first, pretexting an emergency at the hospital she worked at, and the other one let her go eagerly, letting out a relieved breath as soon as she was alone. Martin thought _you don’t know what it is to be alone, Anya, not really, but here’s a taste -_ and then the fog rushed in, taking people with it; a second later, the world was empty, apart from Martin, and from Anya, who looked around her with quiet, incredulous horror. She pinched herself first, as if to wake up from a dream - before dread began to settle in, and she rushed into the café, then got out white as a ghost to call out for someone, _anyone_ in the street. Eventually, she sat down again, leg moving frantically and she finally looked down at her phone. Martin let her call them; her boyfriend, first; then her mother; her friends, then her dad, and finally, finally, after she’d started crying at the long, long minutes of silence at the other end of the calls, her sister.

 

Martin eased the both of them back up into the world, and watched Anya, almost hysterical, crying at her sister to come back as everybody around looked at her uneasily. He felt pleasantly full, even a bit giddy, like when he drank a bit too much. He left the café after paying for his ice cream and Anya’s coffee, which seemed like the polite thing to do, and went back to walking, tranquil and aimless, and only realized where his feet had been leading him when he reached the entry steps of the Magnus Institute.

 

His good mood cooled down slightly as he glanced down to the ground; there were many, many worms, pooling around the walls of the building. Here and there, Martin saw several huge cobwebs, entrapping them. _Some_ powers apparently thought the situation warranted a bit of protection, then. Or control, at least.

 

He wondered what Elias’ plan might be; there was no reasoning or bargaining with Corruption, was there? This was a deliberate attack, fear against fear - probably the results of something Gertrude might have done before dying, even. They’d pull through probably; at least the most _important ones._ Elias would protect his Archivist. Maybe most of the upstairs staff as well would get off easily. Down in the Archives, however, where everything was always _happening…_

 

\----------------------

 

Jonathan Sims’ two assistants were at their desks when Martin inevitably found himself downstairs. A man and a woman, looking Martin’s age, who raised their eyes at the same time when they heard Martin’s footsteps.

 

“Hello,” said the woman with a surprised but kind smile. “Can we help you?”

 

“If you’re looking for a statement, good luck,” said the man with a grin; he looked at Martin up and down, unashamed and casual, and added: “Have they sent you down here for a bit of a fun? You’re new, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

 

“Oh, I - uh, I don’t work here,” Martin said. “I’m here to - see the Archivist, I suppose.”

 

“Well, _good luck with that,_ ” repeated the man, and laughed when his colleague tapped him gently on the arm.

 

“I’ll go find him for you,” she told Martin politely. “Only he might be a bit busy, if he wasn’t expecting you.”

 

“It’s fine,” Martin assured her. “I don’t mind waiting a little bit.”

 

“So,” said the man as soon as she’d left. “Is this professional or personal? Because I don’t think Jon really has _friends,_ but you don’t look - well, most people who want to see Jon are either crazy, desperate, or, you know - Elias.”

 

Martin’s lips twitched. He looked over at the assistant - Tim, it was, Tim Stoker, charming and handsome, hiding underneath so much unspoken grief and guilt that Martin could have fed from him for weeks, probably, if he’d played it well. But it seemed unfair, when Tim was probably going to be dead before the end of the year - if he didn’t become anything worst in the mid-time. So he didn’t pull on any string, let himself smile fully and said:

 

“It’s all professional. But I guess I’m rather glad I don’t look like Elias?”

 

That made Tim Stoker laugh, endearing him to Martin immediately; anyone who didn’t bow to Elias Bouchard was, as far as he was concerned, a pretty okay person. For half a second, he considered telling Tim to quit - perhaps there was still time for him. But then the feeling receded, Tim’s laughter died naturally, and Jonathan’s voice could be heard not far from them:

 

“No matter who it is, I already told Rosie not to send anyone without calling first and -”

 

When he saw Martin, he stopped talking all at once; Martin put his hands in his pockets, offered his most polite smile, and Jonathan’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Mr Blackwood,” he said after a beat.

 

“Hello, Mr Sims. Nice to see you again.”

 

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Tim and - Sasha, yes, Sasha, share a look.

 

“Are the Lukases displeased again by the fact we’re doing our work?” Jonathan asked sarcastically.

 

“Ah, no, no,” Martin said. “I, uh,” he blinked. “I suppose I’m not here on my boss’ behalf at all this time.”

 

“Missing the archives, perhaps?”

 

Martin startled slightly - Jonathan stared at him, intent and sharp, eyebrows slightly raised above his glasses, and he couldn’t help it; he chuckled. Of course, he thought. Of course - god, Elias really had chosen this one with care.

 

“You looked me up,” he said out loud with a grin.

 

“ _You_ are not a Lukas,” Jonathan pointed out.

 

“Funny, I said that to Peter just this morning,” Martin nodded. “What did you find?”

 

“Nothing much,” Jonathan said a beat too late, latent frustration in his voice. “There doesn’t seem to be any records of you between middle school and your arrival here. I do know you were hired as an archival assistant and left the Institute a couple of years later. I also looked up  your CV, which is rather impressive.”

 

“Did you believe everything on it?”

 

“Shouldn’t I have?” Jonathan asked sharply.

 

Martin shrugged. “I guess it’s not that important anymore.”

 

That didn’t seem to satisfy Jonathan very much, which wasn’t surprising, but Martin let the moment pass anyway. Now that he was in front of him, he realized he had no idea what to tell him - by now, the Archivist had to be aware of the impending attack looming over his head. Without the Lukases, there was very little Martin could do for him. In fact, even with the Lukases - what could the Lonely do against the Corruption? They were probably right to sit this one out, and Martin had just been an idiot. _That_ was the reason why he didn’t like coming back here. It always made him so -

 

“Well,” said Jonathan at last. “Are you going to say why you came, or are you just here to waste my time?”

 

“I don’t know,” said Martin, because he guessed he really didn’t. “I just - wanted to check how you were… handling. Stuff.”

 

“Stuff,” repeated Jonathan flatly.

 

“The Infestation,” Martin clarified, because he might as well now. “Do you have a plan to get rid of it, or is your plan to just feed them one of your assistants when the time comes, perhaps?”

 

Jonathan bristled.

 

“Nobody is going to get eaten by anyone,” he said fiercely. “And If you could refrain from talking about Tim and Sasha as if they were not -” he paused, then. Looked around. “Wait. Where -”

 

“I think they just decided to let us talk alone,” Martin said lightly.

 

He could see it, the moment when Jonathan started to genuinely get suspicious - or perhaps it was worry. He stiffened, his face losing a bit of its colour, and he whispered “alone” in a soft, incredulous voice before gazing back at Martin, careful and piercing.

 

“You’re _not_ a Lukas,” he said again with a frown.

 

“I work with them.”

 

“What - Have you done something to them? Tim and Sasha?”

 

“No,” said Martin. He blinked, surprised, and slightly bothered. “You… You’re genuinely caring.”

 

“Of _course_ I am,” Jonathan said, his voice halted and defensive and - sincere.

 

“Well that’s -” _unexpected._ “Not a very good idea.”

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

“What? No,” he said, frowning as well. “I don’t care about your assistants. It’s just. You know. Nobody ever lasts long in the Archives.”

 

“Right,” Jonathan muttered. “And you would know, of course -”

 

“Well, as a matter of fact, yeah,” Martin snapped.

 

He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t supposed to. Something itched in his chest, uncomfortable and _real,_ and he pulled at his shirt, suddenly hot and flushed.

 

“That was a mistake,” he said. “I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t be here. I’m just - Good luck, I guess, with everything and all, I need to go, I need - not to be here -”

 

“Wait!” exclaimed Jonathan as he turned on his heels. He grabbed his wrist, and Martin stumbled. His hand was callused and warm and firm. It almost burnt against Martin’s cold skin. “What do you know? About Jane Prentiss? What can we _do?_ ”

 

“I -” God, his chest hurt, it hurt like it hadn’t since - “I don’t know,” he said. He stared at Jonathan, much closer now, looked at his faltering expression, and added numbly: “They’re worms. All of her _is worms._ If you kill them all, she’ll die as well.”

 

“I knew that,” Jonathan sighed.

 

“The spiders,” Martin said, after taking a long breath, grabbing all he could of Jonathan’s despair. “Be mindful of the spiders. The Web will help you more than any of us can for now.”

 

“The w -” Jonathan didn’t finish his sentence. He let go of Martin, and Martin felt dizzy from the sudden, brutal rush of _missing the warmth._ He looked at the Archivist as he fumbled to get a small lighter out of his pocket, brushing his thumb against it with a thoughtful and perplexed frown, and -

 

He wanted. It wasn’t the Lonely; he didn’t want Jonathan’s despair, he didn’t want his loneliness, he didn’t want him, who took his solitude for granted, for something _good,_ to realize what genuine solitude _was._ He wanted - his warmth. It wasn’t like being refused by Peter, or by anyone else for that matter; it wasn’t even the sweet ache of being touch-starved. It was burning, and it was _painful,_ and Martin - _wanted_.

 

He fled into the fog, feeling flushed and cowardly and confused, emotions he’d forgotten he could have. Only once he was far away from the Archives and the Archivist, hands trembling and mouth dry, did he manage to regain his footing and clear his mind.

 

In his flat, the yellow door now stood right beside his window. He glanced at it a second too long before turning away and refusing to look at it again for the rest of the evening.

 

Eventually, it disappeared by itself. It always did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, I'm writing this fic with scenes in mind more than _chapters_ so, uh -- as you can see, some of them might turn out to be very long. I hope that doesn't bother you guys. 
> 
> WARNINGS for extreme use of loneliness, notably on a child at some point.

He didn’t want to tell Peter about this, so he didn’t. There was every chance of course that Elias had seen him in the Archives, and spied at least the first part of Jonathan’s and his conversation. But if he’d told anything to Peter, Peter didn’t mention it back to Martin, which was good, because Martin wanted to forget everything about it. Life had resumed its peaceful loneliness, dulled everything into quiet politeness and distant emotions and it was - lovely. Familiar. 

 

He heard about the Magnus Institute, of course; there was no entirely escaping it, especially since the Lonely was so entangled with its inner affairs. At the next monthly Lukases’ family dinner - to which Martin was invited, by virtue of, well, he didn’t know, really, but he suspected that Elias wasn’t far off when he called him  _ Peter’s pet  _ \- everybody talked at length about The Corruption’s attack, how the Institute had suffered drastically less damage than they’d assumed it would and all agreed that it was rather a relief that the Archivist had survived, because Elias Bouchard hadn’t had much time left to get him exactly where they needed him to be. 

 

Martin told himself he didn’t care. 

 

It’d been a very long time since he had to  _ tell  _ himself, but it worked, for a while. He went on with his life, working for Peter, feeding from unsuspecting people who would never dare being alone ever again, and reading poetry. 

 

And then, one beautiful morning of July, his phone rang. 

 

The sound startled him hard; his phone hadn’t rang in over a year - perhaps two. He only kept it because it was an easy way to busy his hands when he was outside. He had no contacts registered but many, many apps, from the most interesting to the most useless. He stared at the unknown number for a long time, and almost missed the call because of it; at the last second, he pressed the button to answer it, and said, a bit wary:

 

“Hello?”

 

“Martin Blackwood?” asked a clipped, disturbingly familiar voice. 

 

“I -” Martin frowned at his wall. “Jonathan Sims. How - How did you get this number?”

 

There was an heavy pause. Jonathan cleared his throat and said: “It was on your CV.”

 

Martin almost laughed. “Right,” he said. “My CV. Can’t believe that’s still in the database, to be honest.”

 

“It wasn’t actually - that’s not important,” said Jonathan. “I was wondering if we could - meet.”

 

“Meet,” repeated Martin. This was - utterly absurd.

 

“Yes,  _ meet. _ ” There was another beat of silence, and then Jonathan said stiffly: “You were right. About the spiders. I want - I need to know what else you may be aware of and, frankly, it seemed easier to join you than try to reach Michael.”

 

Martin stilled. “You’ve met Michael?”

 

“Not personally, no - My assistant, Sasha… You know him then?”

 

“I - did.” He licked his lips, fingers tapping awkwardly on his thigh. “Look, I don’t - I haven’t got anything interesting to tell you. And I suspect you  _ shouldn’t  _ go poke at monsters so soon after being attacked by one, yeah?”

 

At the other end of the phone, Jonathan made a sharp, inquisitive noise.

 

“... Are  _ you  _ a monster, Mr Blackwood?”

 

Martin smiled; or perhaps he grimaced. “I haven’t really thought about it in a long time. And - please, call me Martin. We’re the same age, I think? Or about, at least. And nobody calls me Mr Blackwood apart from Peter’s old aunts in Scotland, anyway. Well, and my banker but to be honest, I don’t go see him often, I think he’s a bit afraid of me still from - Well, it’s um. Sort of a long story.”

 

“Right,” said Jonathan, sounding both wary and unimpressed. That reminded Martin abruptly of Gertrude, and he tightened his grip on the phone.

 

“I don’t have anything for you,” he repeated. “You should - go look for answers elsewhere, Jonathan - Can I call you Jonathan?”

 

“Only Elias does it, and that’s when he’s annoyed at me,” Jonathan muttered. “Jon’s fine, I suppose.” 

 

“Jon, fine, lovely - Shouldn’t you rest, anyway? I heard that attack wasn’t pretty.”

 

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Jon said with the voice of someone who’d been asked too many times. “We’re all fine, what I need is not rest, it’s  _ answers,  _ and I think you’re my best chance at it -” 

 

“We’ve met twice,” Martin cut him off, his initial bafflement surging up again. “What makes you possibly think  _ I  _ can give you anything -”

 

“They’ve found Gertrude’s body.” Jon said tersely. “My - predecessor.” 

 

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. His chest was itching again. He gritted his teeth. “Yes, I know who Gertrude is, Jon.”

 

“Which means you may know who killed her. And as I’m sure you can guess, I’m highly interested in knowing if anyone working at the Institute may just decide to point a gun at me and kill me at any moment -”

 

It would have been so easy, to tell him  _ Elias did it.  _ Would the Archivist sense the truth in his voice? Would he believe him? He seemed - distressed. He might. But then, he would confront Elias, and Elias would… Well, there were a lot of things that Elias could do, none of which particularly appealed to Martin. Especially the idea that he may have a chat with his husband; Martin wasn’t sure Peter would appreciate much if he started spilling secrets to Jon without being prompted. Though, to be fair, Martin at least  _ knew  _ how to handle a dissatisfied Peter; he’d had time to get use to his ways. Elias, however -

 

“Hey,” he interrupted Jon after a moment. “Gertrude Robinson was the Archivist for many, many years. She had time to… annoy people. You just have to - not do that.”

 

Jon fell silent for a second, and then, to Martin’s surprise, he let out a small huff of tired laughter. “Well, if that’s just that, then I don’t think I’m going to last very long.”

 

Martin hesitated. “Just don’t - intervene,” he said at last, though his mouth felt dry and his hands were starting to sweat around the phone. “That… That ought to come naturally to you. Eventually.”

 

“I’m not going to just sit idly by and wait for someone to decide I’m too much of a nuisance,” Jon told him firmly. “I do not intend to become a stack of bones rotting in forgotten tunnels and whoever did this -” he stopped then, abruptly, and he said, much, much quieter: “Why am I telling you this? You might just - you might just know them. Work with them. I mean, I’ve been assuming whoever killed her was human but -”

 

“I’m  _ still  _ sort of human,” Martin protested. “... I think. And anyway, why are you so keen on believing that whoever killed her may want to kill you too?”

 

“Because,” said Jon, “she was head archivist before me, and it seemed as if it was her whole life. So unless you can attest that she wasn’t murdered  _ specifically  _ because of her job...”

 

Martin could most certainly not say that. Jon laughed again, but this time, it wasn’t even remotely pleasant.

 

“Right,” he said, his voice raspy and terse again. “Right, I just - This was very much a mistake. Goodbye, Martin.”

 

“W -” 

 

It was too late; Jon had already hung up. Martin let the phone fall on the couch. His hands were shaking, and he felt way, way too hot. He opened the window, but of course it was summer, the sun was bright and already high in the sky, and it didn’t help at all. His heart was beating - fast. Or perhaps it was just… He didn’t remember how fast the heart was supposed to beat. He closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe slowly. 

 

“It’s not supposed to do that,” he muttered. “I’m not supposed to do that anymore.”

 

Of course, nobody answered. 

 

Some of the tension in his body dissipated.

 

\--------------------

In retrospect, it was foolish to expect Elias to stay  _ entirely  _ uninvolved. Especially when Martin was pushing the boundaries so far.

 

“Martin,” he said, smooth and calm as always, when Martin appeared in the Archives, several days later. “Are you missing working here so much that you can’t resist paying the Institute a visit?”

 

How long had he been waiting for him? Martin wondered, and didn’t bother asking the question out loud; if Elias wanted to answer, he would. But of course, the only clue he had that Elias had heard was the shadow of a smile that passed on his lips.

 

“You know why I’m here,” Martin said. “Are you going to help or not?”

 

“I don’t think we have any statement here for you.”

 

“Of course you don’t,” he muttered dejectedly. 

 

“There  _ is  _ an easy path to follow to avoid troubles,” Elias pointed out, eyes piercing and dangerous. “Staying away from Jon, for example, may prove useful.”

 

“I didn’t -” Martin started, then gritted his teeth. “I’m not going to hurt your Archivist, Elias. I’m not  _ stupid,  _ no matter what you - you - keep believing.”

 

“Who talked about hurting? If I’m worried about anybody attacking him right now, it’s certainly not you.” Martin frowned, but Elias continued calmly: “Peter and I made a deal so, contrary to what you may be thinking, Martin, I  _ am  _ trying to help you - it’s not in my interest to see you… struggling.” 

 

“Ha,” Martin laughed, bitter. “Wouldn’t want to have a new debt, is that it?”

 

“Indeed not,” Elias nodded like they’d just reached a pleasant understanding. 

 

_ Fuck you, Elias.  _

 

“I don’t think the Institute is very good for you,” he added. “Stay away, Martin.”

 

It sounded like a conclusion, if not a threat. Martin swallowed and turned away without another word to disappear into the blissful quiet of the fog. Maybe Elias was right. Maybe. 

 

Or… Or  _ maybe _ , he didn’t know what was happening to him either. And that was a genuinely scary thought to have.

 

\--------------------

 

It shouldn’t have been hard to stay away. The pull the Institute had had on him had faded years ago, and even taking into account the odd symptoms developed after two entire conversations with Jon Sims, Martin didn’t  _ feel  _ bad because he wasn’t near the building often enough, as it’d been the case before. In fact, he didn’t feel much of anything, which was his norm, and so he could absolutely not fathom why, for the next three months, his steps kept leading back to where Jon Sims was whenever he started to err around London. More often than not, of course, he found himself staring at the old bricks of the Magnus Institute.

 

Sometimes, though, he’d end up in a grocery shop and find that Jon was at the counter, grumbling at his wallet, or he’d stroll over to a new bookshop, and realize that he knew the sharp voice questioning the librarian about  _ something  _ that may or may not have happened more than forty years before. When he realized, one evening, that Mrs Delanoe, the woman he’d helped with her cats and who missed her husband so badly, wishing idly her children might visit while knowing they wouldn’t, was one of Jon’s neighbours, he started to truly wonder what the universe was expecting of him. 

 

Martin had done his part; he had made his choice - no matter how influenced or not that choice might have been. The Lukases were terrible people, for sure, and Peter was - well, he was  _ Peter,  _ but Martin didn’t mind, really. The first few weeks - months - might have been a bit complicated, but since then, Martin had easily gotten used to his new life. Frankly, very little had  _ changed _ , apart that he could now understand people and their fear, need, or despair of solitude intimately, and use it at will to keep one Eldritch God happy. Life was dull and pleasant and nothing hurt because nothing  _ touched him.  _ He had no inspiration to change anything about that, and he didn’t understand why someone - anyone - (the Eye? Pulling him back in its orbit? The Web? Whose plans were notoriously impossible to understand until the last second? Something else entirely that he hadn’t encountered yet?) would want to snatch him away from it. 

 

He resolved to be more careful, because he didn’t want to deal with this, and he certainly disliked the idea of being  _ pushed  _ once more into something without all the cards in hand. Of course, it meant that the next time he decided to walk instead of taking the train to get home, he, very much literally, bumped into Jonathan Sims.

 

“Pardon,” mumbled Jon, annoyed and fast, and then he raised his head and froze. “What - are you  _ following me? _ ”

 

Martin felt a bit offended - the universe clearly  _ wanted him  _ to follow Jon, but  _ he  _ didn’t know that, so… 

 

“My life does  _ not  _ revolve around you, Archivist.” he said with a frown. And then, because he was an idiot, he added: “What are you even doing here? You live on the opposite side of London.”

 

“How do you know that?” Jon asked sharply, his eyes guarded. 

 

Martin opened his mouth; closed it.  _ Idiot.  _

 

“Well I’d - say there’s a reasonable explanation to that, but I don’t think you’d believe me.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“... Yeah. Kinda walked right into that one - um. No pun intended.”

 

They stared at each other for a little while; Jon looked terrible. There were heavy bags under his eyes, his hair was a mess - more so than the few times he’d seen him before at least -, his face bore the scars of Prentiss’ attack still and he looked like someone… Hunted. Martin frowned. He hadn’t heard anything at all from Peter but there were a lot of creatures out there, people who liked the Eye far less than the Lonely did, who might want to follow on Jane Prentiss’ steps. 

 

“Are you...Okay?” he asked at last, the words odd in his mouth. “Is there… Is the Institute threatened again?”

 

“Not externally,” Jon muttered, before his face closed off even further. “Why do you care?”

 

“I don’t,” said Martin, almost defensively. “I’m being - polite, I guess.”

 

Jon snorted. “Right; well, I’m fine, thank you very much. I’m also busy, so, if we’re quite done -”

 

He made a vague gesture with his hand which he probably intended to be a goodbye, and then simply - started to walk again. Martin blinked, swaying on his feet for a few seconds. He wished they were done, he thought. It should have been done. 

 

He turned around and walked fast to get back at Jon’s side. 

 

“What - are you doing?” hissed Jon. 

 

“I don’t know,” Martin admitted with a small shrug. “I guess I’m curious. Call it a side effect of working at the Institute for so long.”

 

“You can’t -”

 

“Are you meeting up with someone?”

 

“No.” 

 

“Then I guess I can’t be such a bother, right?”

 

Jon sighed, frustrated. “I am  _ trying  _ to be discreet.” he said through his teeth.

 

Martin couldn’t help but grin. “Well, I’m very good at being unnoticed.”

 

This seemed to grab Jon’s attention; he stopped walking again, rather abruptly, and stared up at Martin attentively.

 

“How does it work?” he asked at last.

 

“Excuse-me?” Martin blinked, taken aback.

 

“Your… thing, your power, how does it work? Last time, at the Institute, I looked down a second, and suddenly you were - gone. Sasha and Tim had no idea when or how you’d left.”

 

“People don’t pay attention to me,” said Martin after a beat, because it was the easiest thing to explain. “People don’t  _ want  _ to pay attention to me.”

 

“Why?” 

 

“Because they  don’t like to feel lonely.”

 

A shadow passed through Jon’s eyes, but it was gone before Martin could make anything out of it. 

 

“Does it work only for you?” he asked. “Or could you - make somebody else unnoticed?”

 

“I mean,” said Martin, carefully. “It’s sort of -”  _ what I do to feed. “ _ yeah. Technically, I could.”

 

“That -” Jon looked in front of him, deep in thoughts. “That seems like a useful advantage to have,” he finished, though it didn’t seem like he was really talking to Martin.

 

“Sure?” Martin agreed anyway. 

 

“Would you do it to me?” 

 

“What?”

 

“Make me go unnoticed,” Jon clarified, sounding a bit exasperated like he expected Martin to follow his deep,  _ silent  _ reasoning. 

 

“ _ No.  _ Why would I - I mean, anyway, even if...  _ if  _ I wanted to - attack you, there are a billion more efficient ways to do so; you’re already  _ radiating  _ loneliness.”

 

Jon looked taken aback, for a second. Then, he said, stiffly: “I  _ meant  _ if I asked. Would you  _ help me  _ go unnoticed if I asked?”

 

“Oh.” 

 

“It’s nice to know I’m apparently an easy target though,” he added sarcastically. 

 

“It can’t actually come as a surprise,” Martin pointed out; the back of his neck burnt. He ignored it, focusing on Jon’s question. “Why do you want to go unnoticed?”

 

Jon pursed his lips and cast a glance at their surroundings, clutching the handle of the bag he was carrying a bit harder. 

 

“I’m investigating,” he said at last. “And things would be… easier if the people I’m… looking into believed I trusted them.”

 

Martin stared at him. “... Is this a genuine statement investigation, or is this about Gertrude’s murder?”

 

Jon didn’t even have to open his mouth to answer; his stiffening body said everything. Martin shook his head.

 

“Jon -” he started, and stopped. He hadn’t expected that it would… feel so unsatisfying to not be able to tell him the truth. Was this something Archivists could make you do? Feel bad about omitting or lying about something that mattered to them? He cleared his throat. “Who are you even suspecting?”

 

“Everybody,” Jon said, and well, at the very least, that was honest. “But lately I’ve been - my assistant, Tim, he’s been…”

 

“ _ Seriously? _ ” Martin couldn’t help but exclaim. Jon looked startled. “I get that you’re worried but - he’s  _ your  _ assistant. Did he even know Gertrude before she died?”

 

“He said he’d just seen her a couple of times,” Jon said, reluctant and disdainful. “But he could be telling me anything at all, couldn’t he?” he continued defensively. “He could - I mean, there’s not even a proper reason for him to be in the Institute, he used to be a - a publisher, for God’s sake! I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume he might be hiding something, and that it might be related to Gertrude’s murder.”

 

Martin pondered on whether to tell Jon about Tim’s dead brother. It seemed like that might be enough to change somebody’s life path, but he also felt like - and how ironic was that - someone had to be the sensible one here, and Jon was clearly not going to be that person.

 

“I’m not helping you spy on your assistant,” he ended up saying.

 

“Because he’s guilty?” Jon asked. “Or because you know he’s  _ not _ ?”

 

“Because I guess I’m a monster with  _ some  _ ethics,” Martin retorted and Jon flinched. 

 

“Well, in that case -” he said, cold and awkward, “ - I believe you can just… go.”

 

“Wait - is that what you were going to do right now? Go spy on Tim Stoker?”

 

He could have sworn Jon’s cheeks had reddened. “He lives just a few blocks away from here.” 

 

It was odd to feel indignant. It wasn’t quite anger - Martin remembered anger more than most emotions, but indignation he’d quite forgotten, especially on behalf of someone he’d only spoken to a minute or two. He suspected this wasn’t about Tim Stoker at all; he didn’t care for him. He was just another name, another future victim. But that was it, wasn’t it? Tim Stoker, like all archival assistants who had ever signed up to work at the Magnus Institute, didn’t  _ know  _ he was just a casualty waiting to happen. He didn’t  _ know _ , and Jon had the nerve to ruin what little freedom and life he had left outside of that damned place - 

 

“Yeah, yeah, no, you’re not doing that.” 

 

“I’m  _ sorry? _ ” Jon sputtered. 

 

“You’re not doing that,” Martin repeated. “That’s just - not good and bad boss behaviour or whatever.”

 

“You don’t - I wasn’t asking for permission,” Jon told him. He looked affronted, of all things.

 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t stop you,” Martin pointed out.

 

“... Are you threatening me?”

 

“Do I _need to_? Because I mean, I _could,_ but I don’t think our respective bosses would appreciate it. Probably.”

 

“What would you even do? Of all the monsters I’ve read about,  _ loneliness  _ is not the one I would call the most frightening -”

 

Martin raised his hand; Jon took an abrupt step back, but Martin grabbed his shoulder, put two, icy fingers over Jon’s beating pulse, and leant very, very close. 

 

“That’s because you’ve been very, very good at pushing back how lonely you  _ are, _ ” he breathed out. Jon opened his mouth, but Martin continued, letting the fog embrace Jon, tightening his grip, making him gasp and shudder: “And you are so,  _ so  _ lonely, Jon Sims. If anything happened to you tomorrow, who would care? Elias? He’ll replace you, like he replaced Gertrude before. You’ve got no friends to cry over your disappearance, no family to wonder where you’ve gone, you’ve  _ barely  _ got two assistants, and you’re already burning bridges with them. You’ve been isolating yourself all your life, and pretended you liked it, just because it was easier than to navigate through human relationships you didn’t understand, that you couldn’t be  _ perfect  _ at. And you couldn’t admit you were broken, so instead you just shut yourself away in your own condescendence, and told yourself you didn’t  _ care - _ ”

 

“You’ve - made your point,” Jon spat; his tone was weaker, and his eyes wet, but his gaze was still defiant. His chest was so painfully tight, he was aching so  _ beautifully  _ and it felt…  _ wrong _ . Martin jerked his hand away. 

 

“Right,” he said; his own voice was trembling. “Well - anyway. I can… Be scary. If needed.”

 

Jon didn’t say anything, just pushed his hands into his pockets, his lips closed into a thin line. The silence that fell was heavy. It was - god. It was uncomfortable. Martin’s heart was beating too fast again. He didn’t feel better like he usually did using the fog; he felt flushed, dizzy, almost sick. It wasn’t normal, and it was Jonathan Sims’ fault, or - he meant, it  _ had  _ to be his fault, so it made no sense when he finally muttered:

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t - I’m sorry.”

 

“I suppose I… asked for it,” Jon said stiffly. He looked surprised at his own admission. 

 

“Yeah,” Martin breathed out. “Maybe don’t - make an habit of telling monsters that you’re not afraid of them. That... That is  _ literally  _ the one thing they like most; proving people wrong about their fears.”

 

“Right. Right. Of course it is.”

 

Martin glanced at him again. Jon looked - tired. No. Exhausted.

 

“Come on,” he said, sounding more determined than he felt. “Let me - I’m buying you dinner. Somewhere.”

 

Jon stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “What?”

 

“Consider it an… apology,” Martin said, scratching his nose. “And… I don’t know. A kinder way to stop you from being a sucky boss?”

 

_ Also, the universe wants something, and I’m going to understand what,  _ he didn’t say, because then Jon would have started to ask more questions, probably, and Martin had no answers to give. Jon blinked several times, looking baffled beyond words, and more than a little suspicious, until his shoulders finally fell and he sighed:

 

“You know what? Fine - Fine, let’s.” he let out a small puff of incredulous laughter. “Let’s have dinner.”

 

They walked in silence until they reached the first restaurant in their path; it didn’t look like much, and there was almost nobody already eating, but Martin looked at Jon and Jon sort of shrugged, and they ended up at a table tucked against the corner windows, looking at the menu, which consisted mostly of pizzas. It was about that time that Martin realized he hadn’t really  _ done  _ anything with another human being in… a very long time. 

 

Oh, he  _ talked  _ to people, of course; had to, because of the work he did for Peter. He regularly went out, usually on the most busy nights of the week, just to get the nice feeling of being lost, alone, in a crowd of people he didn’t know, and always managed to spot the men who would reject his advances dismissively; he liked them better than the ones who invited him back to their places - people eager for connection, who needed almost nothing apart from a kind smile, and who afterwards stared at their ceilings, believing Martin to have fallen asleep and feeling horrendously empty inside without realizing why. 

 

Jon, Martin thought, staring at him from above the menu card, was definitely the first kind of man. But suggesting they had sex might be counterproductive to what he was trying to achieve, that is,  _ understanding,  _ which meant he had to… Find a way to talk to him instead. He couldn’t talk about emotions - that didn’t seem very polite after the little scene from earlier, but it didn’t seem like speaking of any… work related issues might be useful either. Truth be told, Martin itched to ask if Jon felt it too, this - this  _ pull,  _ but then Jon would ask to explain what was going on with him, and… Well. Martin didn’t know, did he? And it wasn’t like his symptoms couldn’t have been interpreted in a wholly different manner by someone who still saw things in a rather… human way.

 

“You’re staring,” Jon said abruptly. 

 

“Oh - um, sorry.”

 

“Are you… probing?” 

 

“Pro -” Martin almost laughed. “No, Jon, I wasn’t - looking into your soul, or whatever you think. I’m just… I was trying to find a subject of discussion, actually.”

 

“Oh.” Jon, looked genuinely taken aback. “Right. Of course.” 

 

As if she’d sensed the awkwardness slipping in, the waitress appeared at their table right then, and they ordered. Once she was gone again, Martin looked back at Jon, and Jon’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly, expectant. 

 

“So,” Martin asked. “Why did you join the Institute in the first place?”

 

“Why did  _ you? _ ” Jon fired back immediately.

 

“Nowhere else was hiring,” he answered easily enough. “I was a seventeen-year-old kid who needed to care for his mum, but I suppose those sort of things don’t matter much to businesses, do they?” 

 

“Sevente -” Jon frowned and asked, more carefully: “Your CV - you were wondering if I’d believed what was on there. Which parts were a lie?”

 

“All of them, I think.” Martin shrugged. “I mean, apart from, you know, the name and ways to contact me,” he amended.

 

He watched Jon process this; he didn’t know whether he was more wary or offended, but the little noise he let out after a moment of silence led Martin to believe that, without doubt, he’d do another background check on him as soon as he could, probably much more thoroughly than the first time. There wasn’t time to feel amused or - bad about it, not that Martin really cared either way, because then Jon spoke up again and asked:

 

“Why did you leave?”

 

And Martin felt his mouth fill with numbness. He forced himself to smile. 

 

“I’d rather we didn’t talk about that.” 

 

“Was it because of Gertrude?” Jon insisted.

 

“ _ Please _ , Jon.”

 

“... Alright, fine,” Jon muttered after a beat, looking slightly disgruntled. 

 

His fingers ran nervously across the table, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and he glanced away from Martin for a moment, staring above his shoulder - either he was waiting for the food to arrive, or he was wondering how to escape the situation, probably. Martin couldn’t blame him. His chest itched again, and no amount of rubbing his hand over it seemed to help. He  _ knew  _ it had to be Jon. Or was it the Archivist? The sharp reminder that this man shared the same position as Gertrude… After all, as Peter had pointed out several times, Martin’s feelings about the Institute were not… what they were supposed to be. How had he said it?  _ There was no rancour in the Lukas’ family _ . At least - At least not once a debt had been paid. Was that it? Martin wondered suddenly. Did the Institute, did Jon -  _ owe him _ ? 

 

“I joined the Institute because I’ve always believed in the paranormal,” Jon said suddenly, briskly, his voice a bit dry. Martin startled, honestly surprised. “By which I mean, I believe that supernatural things do happen, but in very rare cases and obviously not -” he pursed his lips. “ _ Obviously _ , I don’t believe in most statements that come to the Institute. But I’ve always  _ acknowledged  _ that such things were possible, and I suppose I wanted - to learn about them. Study them.”

 

Martin’s lips quirked up again. “You really are perfectly fitted for your position.”

 

“I don’t - actually have any archivist experience,” Jon said, haltingly, like he was admitting his worst and most embarrassing secret, clutching his fork too tight. “I… didn’t understand when Elias suggested I took the position, at first.”

 

“You still said yes,” Martin pointed out lightly.

 

“Yes.” Jon blinked, thoughtful. “I suppose I did.”

 

Their plates arrived before Martin could ask  _ Do you regret it?.  _ They stopped talking for a while. Jon stared at his food, poking at it as if it might be poisonous, but once he’d dared take a bite, it suddenly looked as if he hadn’t eaten for over a week - he ate like a starved man, a bit too quickly, looking full mid-way through and still stuffing himself more. Martin observed, almost forgetting to eat himself, and thought that if Jon - the Archivist, whatever - owed him anything, apparently it couldn’t be settled by sending him to the Lonely, or even just… poking at his loneliness, which was bothersome, because there wasn’t a lot more Martin could  _ do.  _

 

“Again with the staring,” Jon said; his voice sounded a bit off, now. “Do you not need to eat then?”

 

“What?” Martin looked down his food. “Oh. Oh, no I - well, I told you. I’m still sort of human. Mostly? Just… spooky powers as a bonus.”

 

Jon snorted, though his gaze lingered again on Martin; Martin couldn’t quite make out what he was thinking. 

 

“You don’t - look anything else than human.” He said at last. “I - don’t know if it isn’t the scariest thing about you.”

 

Martin stayed silent. He - couldn’t say he didn’t understand where Jon was coming from. Jon nodded, slowly, and put down his fork again. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked above Martin’s shoulder again.

 

“If I want to go -” he began, stiff again.

 

“I haven’t taken you hostage,” Martin muttered. “Just - you know. Go home. Get some sleep. Don’t stalk your assistants.”

 

Jon’s fingers started to fidget again. “Why do you care, Martin? You’ve - left the Institute. It’s pretty clear that this has nothing to do with whatever… business Peter Lukas is employing you for. So - why does it  _ matter  _ to you?”  

 

It must have really bothered Jon, Martin thought a little bit hysterically, because there it was at last, that terrible, tantalizing, tingly feeling at the back of his throat. He bit it down, his hand curling into a fist on his lap.

 

“Don’t do that,” he snapped and Jon startled.

 

“Do what?” 

 

“Just - don’t,” Martin sighed, because, of course, Jon didn’t know, not yet - but he would, soon enough. He would know what he could do, if he used his voice the right way, and Martin had a feeling he might like it even more than Gertrude, who merely used it because it was  _ practical  _ and faster than waiting for the person in front of her to answer honestly just because they wanted to.

 

“Right,” said Jon. “Sure.”

 

Silence fell again. Martin was too warm; he rubbed his chest again, and said:

 

“Didn’t you want to go?”

 

“I - I - yeah. It just… seems… rude, I suppose.”

 

Martin couldn’t help but grin. “You don’t strike me as someone who cares much about rudeness.”

 

“I’m - I’m not. Usually.” Jon frowned again. “There’s -” he started, but didn’t finish, because suddenly he was on his feet, biting down a cry of surprise and… fear.

 

“What is it?” asked Martin, rising up as well.

 

“Nothing,” Jon answered, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. “Nothing I - there’s a spider.” He glared towards the kitchen. “That probably says a lot about the state of this restaurant -”

 

“Oh, come on,” said Martin. He moved around the table. The spider was dangling over the tablecloth on Jon’s side, seemingly indifferent to the drama. He knew better, of course, but he gently went to cup it between his hands nevertheless. “Spiders don’t wish you any harm. They’re - well. They’re an important part of the ecosystem, if anything. Do you mind opening the window?”

 

Jon huffed, stiff all over again, but he obliged. Martin pushed the spider outside.

 

“It might - not have been a… normal one,” Jon said. 

 

“It probably wasn’t,” Martin acknowledged. 

 

“Why - what do they want?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Right,” Jon said again. “Right, you don’t know, but you knew, about the spiders before, didn’t you? You knew they were going to help -”

 

“I guessed,” Martin rectified, glancing at him again. “There were cobwebs all over the Institute last time I came, Jon, It wasn’t exactly hard - besides, they don’t have any reason to wish for the Institute to fall. I don’t - know why you think I might have all the answers for you…”

 

“You clearly have more than me, in any case,” Jon said, frustrated.

 

“Won’t last,” Martin said, and then he laughed, feeling anything but amused. “This is - God, it’s so warm in there. Let’s just - you wanted to go. Let’s go, okay?”

 

“Are you…” Jon leant slightly towards him, his hand over hovering over his arm. “Are you okay? Did the spider bite you?”

 

Martin laughed again. “No, it didn’t; missed opportunity, arrived too late.”

 

“What -” 

 

“Nothing,” Martin breathed out. He felt dizzy. “Nothing. I think we’ve talked too long.”

 

“... We’ve barely talked in over an hour,” Jon pointed out. He almost sounded worried. “You really don’t look -”

 

Martin shook his head; his heart was racing in his chest but he went to his jacket’s pocket, took out his wallet, and threw money on the table.  

 

“There,” he said. “Should be enough I think? I really -  _ I’m  _ not actually a rude person, usually but I need to go I just -”

 

“Martin,” Jon tried, and grabbed his wrist.

 

Martin fell into the fog; it was that or falling on the ground.

 

\--------------------

It was like having the flu; Martin remembered being ill, as a teenager - he didn’t know where he’d caught it; school, probably. But he remembered that, even as he laid in bed, every part of his body aching, flushed and sweaty and barely able to stand up without vertigo, all his thoughts had been turned towards his mum. What would happen if she caught the flu because of him? What if she fell when he was sleeping it off and he couldn’t help her? What if, what if - he’d had nightmares the whole week, had tried to get over it quicker than he should have, and had ended up with a nasty cough for over a month because of it. 

 

The coughing had driven his mum mad; She’d tapped on her wheelchair with her frail hand, and cursed in Polish about taking better medication  _ or else  _ for weeks.

 

It was a little bit like that now, except Martin hadn’t spared his mum a second thought in several years, which meant there was little to think about apart from the warmth and the dizziness. His mind caught the feelings of little Harry, upstairs, and he grabbed onto it, probably not as gently as usual, until he heard through the ceiling his piercing, small voice, screaming  _ I don’t exist, mommy, I don’t exist -  _ then Martin breathed out, feeling shaky but better, apart, of course, from the fact that he felt… 

 

God -

 

He felt guilty.

 

\--------------------

 

He didn’t know when he fell asleep after that. Only when he woke up, the next morning, everything was back to normal; dull, peaceful, quiet. He got up, made himself a cup of tea, listened to his neighbours, talking in shaky, angry voices about sending Harry to see a psychologist.  _ Are you a monster? _ Had asked Jon that first time, on the phone. Martin hadn’t lied then, when he’d said he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. But he certainly knew the answer, deep down. 

 

He drank his tea quietly, took a shower, read the news, and then made himself another cup, for good measure. He had absolutely no desire to go outside today. Peter’s paperwork could easily be done at home. Still - he lingered in his kitchen, half because of the yellow door next to his fridge, half because of the screaming match upstairs, and the ache in both his neighbours’ hearts, feeding the swirling fog that had settled in his mind. 

 

It was almost noon when Peter suddenly appeared. The yellow door vanished immediately. 

 

“Martin,” he said behind him, “I’ve just come back from the port, Gregory Dulligan has been pestering me about some silly non-sense I genuinely don’t have time to deal with; I thought we had agreed you might take over my correspondence with him -”

 

Peter’s voice died down when his fingers brushed against Martin’s arm. Martin shivered.

 

“Oh, Martin,” Peter whispered, sounding surprised and a bit reproving as he pressed himself against him, taking a long breath. “Have you been doing something you shouldn’t?”

 

“Are there things I shouldn’t be doing?” Martin asked. His mouth was a bit dry. “It’s not like you ever - gave me a manual.”

 

“You’re right, you’re right of course,” Peter murmured, his voice full of sugar and false understanding. He stroked Martin’s arm, and squeezed his hand. “Only I tend to forget you’re not - ah, nevermind.” His lips grazed upon Martin’s cheek, and he chuckled. “My, you’re almost making me sentimental; I’d missed this.”

 

“I don’t understand,” said Martin through gritted teeth.

 

“I  _ know  _ you do,” Peter retorted sweetly. “You’re a clever boy. I’m not  _ mad _ , if you’re wondering. Intrigued, rather.”

 

“Do you -” Martin licked his lips. There was no reason to pretend, if Peter could feel it. “Do you know what’s happening?”

 

Peter hummed against his neck. “I have a few guesses.”

 

Martin waited. Peter started to slowly drop a trail of light kisses on his skin. 

 

“Are you going to tell me?” He asked at last.

 

“I know how much you - like your evidence, my dear. I will, in good time, when I have enough to support my hypothesis. It’ll have to wait a bit, of course. We’re leaving for South Africa in less than three days. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

 

Martin’s eyes fluttered. Well, then. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

 

Peter didn’t ask before he pushed him against the kitchen countertop to kiss him. Martin let him anyway. His skin buzzed with the soft knowledge of being utterly empty inside and, though it took a few seconds longer than usual, it wasn’t long before he was gripping Peter’s coat tightly, hungry for more nothingness. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh - here's the new chapter, and also, well, here's the last chapter for a little while? Here's the thing, chapter five is - very, _very_ long, and also, I don't have anything else after that, because I'm a bit.........stuck. So, I hope the delay won't be too long, but I'm going to stop publishing for a little while, trying to get back into the Lonely instead of getting distracted by, uh. Many other monster!martins, ha. 
> 
> But I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!!

Peter never said, and just kept alluding, for days and weeks which slowly turned into months; it must have been important, Martin thought, because he wasn’t done with Martin even after that first boat trip, even after Martin started to cry again. He did not let him go back to England through the fog, but kept him close by his side until Martin felt so impossibly lonely he was almost drunk on it. And even after they’d come back home, he was invited to stay at Peter’s manor - that is to say, he was  _ strongly encouraged _ to - and stayed there several weeks more, in the middle of the countryside, the fog constantly swirling at his ankles, without seeing another face than Peter’s. 

 

He could have left, of course; he could have say no to Peter, and Peter might have even let it be, though he’d found another way to get what he wanted, whatever it was. Only this was familiar and peaceful, solitary and cold and despite it all, cocooning. Several times, Peter did not come back for almost a week - was it a week? There were no calendars in Peter’s manor, and phones did not work of course - and Martin stayed in bed, having nowhere to go and nobody to see, his lips mouthing words he had no one to offer to, and wondering, his body humming with something close to ecstasy, if he existed at all, or if he was merely a thought or a dream or - a fear. 

 

There were no yellow doors to ignore here either. 

 

But eventually, one day - there was a spider. 

 

It was a ridiculously tiny spider, not exactly Martin’s favourite kind, and was so light it took Martin several minutes to realize it was resting against the tip of his finger. He looked at it, puzzled and soft, and then he sighed: 

 

“Is this an alliance you want, then?”

 

The spider, of course, did not answer. It didn’t even move. Martin wondered if it could at all, here - perhaps there wasn’t even a spider, and he was merely dreaming. But it seemed odd, when all his dreams were of endless grey lately, dancing around him in a dizzyingly slow and penetrating manner. He carefully moved his hand until the spider was almost at eye level, and he whispered firmly:

 

“Whatever it is,  _ I  _ don’t want it. And I don’t think you’re playing fair, meddling in the Lonely affairs -”

 

He was interrupted by his phone ringing very loudly. He startled quite hard, and stared at it; for one thing, it shouldn’t have been where it was, right next to him on the table - and there was no reason for it to ring, either, since  _ phones didn’t work here.  _ He looked down to glare at the spider, but it’d disappeared. The ringing only stopped when he picked up the phone.

 

There was - a surprisingly long list of missed calls, and even a few texts. All of them from the same number. Martin may not have put Jon in his contact list, but he also wasn’t an idiot.

 

“You’re not playing fair,” he repeated into thin air. 

 

But then again, which Eldritch God was, at the end of the day? Peter was probably going to make a remark about this later. But, well - maybe this would also… push things a little bit forward. Martin hesitated, the idea of seeing people battling against his curiosity to know.

 

In the end, he sighed again, and grabbed his jacket. It was time to get back to the city.

 

\--------------------

Jon’s messages were neither heartfelt nor truly  _ nice,  _ but they still pulled Martin out of the fog much better than the rest of the world. He listened to them all - going from that night together, which felt so distant he wouldn’t have been sure it had really happened were it not for Jon’s voice, awkward and stilted, enquiring about his health, to the most recent one, three weeks ago, exasperated and cold, which was just Jon wondering out loud why he was  _ bothering  _ when Martin’s lack of reply said it all.

 

It was - interesting, even a relief, maybe, to realize that whatever had drawn Martin to Jon (and he was starting to suspect the whom, though he couldn’t discern at all the why), it worked both ways, to a certain extent. He didn’t think the interactions they’ve had warranted such… insistence on Jon’s part in any case. Though perhaps he was wrong, and it was just the sort of man Jon  _ was _ , but considering his social life, it was doubtful.

 

“ _ Sorry _ ,” he sent eventually. “ _ I’ve been away.” _

 

Jon didn’t answer immediately, which he supposed was fair. After several hours, Martin gave up on getting an answer before the end of the day (and shivered pleasantly at the idea of being forgotten or not important enough) and went to bed, exhausted from an entire day in the real world. Tomorrow, he’d have to find someone, which meant going out. It’d been a long time since he had bought poetry; maybe he’d do that. Bookshops were always full of people who liked to be alone, or thought they did at least - the perfect place for Martin to be to ease himself back into London. 

 

When he woke up, Jon had replied, short and to the point:  _ “Where?” _

 

Martin felt his lips stretch. He wrote: “ _ Nowhere at all. _ ”

 

This time, it took less than five minutes for his phone to start ringing.

 

“Hi,” he said, picking up the call. 

 

“I am getting very tired of cryptic answers,” Jon said. 

 

“I’m being rather honest, actually,” Martin told him. 

 

“Nowhere at all?” Jon repeated sarcastically. 

 

“Well, I mean, that’s the concise answer at least.”

 

“I -” Jon let out a frustrated sigh at the other end of the phone. Martin scratched the back of his neck.

 

“I could elaborate, if you want. We could grab lunch, maybe?” 

 

“That depends, are you going to disappear on me again?”

 

“I’m sorry about that, I really am, I  _ swear  _ it’s not in my habits. I still paid for it though, that counts right?” he asked, and then, he blinked. “Wait I did, right? Was there enough money?”

 

“Two pounds missing,” Jon said. “It’s - fine.”

 

“Oh.” Martin cleared his throat. “Well, sorry anyway. Maths has never been my strong suit.”

 

“Yeah, me neither,” Jon muttered and Martin grinned. There was a pause, and then he added, accusingly: “You’re distracting me. We were talking about where you’ve been -”

 

“And I suggested lunch,” Martin finished. “I can come by the Institute.”

 

“That -” Jon paused, for a rather long time. Eventually he said. “Fine. There’s - I’ll text you the address of a place not so far away.”

 

“ _ Really _ , Jon?”

 

“I don’t - I’d rather the others didn’t know, for now,” Jon said haltingly after a beat. 

 

“That you talk to monsters?” 

 

“That I talk to someone who may or may not have - anyway, I’d rather not arouse more suspicion that it seems I already have, that’s all.”

 

“Oh god, you’ve  _ stalked them,  _ haven’t you?  _ Jon - _ ”

 

“I’ll text you the address,” Jon cut him off, and promptly hung up on him. 

 

\--------------------

 

Martin arrived early at the restaurant; there were only a few people here, and nobody else came in from the moment he was sitting at a table. The waiters seem to forget he was here as well, as nobody came by to ask what he’d like to eat. Gradually, the restaurant emptied, until there was nobody left but the staff and Jon came into view, shoulders hunched and eyes darting around him every second or so. When he entered inside, he stilled for a moment. A waiter came by his side, asking if he wanted to eat here or order a take-out, and Jon let his gaze roam over the room, until, after a beat, it settled on Martin, who waved. 

 

“I’m with him,” Jon said, pointing. 

 

The waiter looked confused for a moment though when he saw Martin, his expression turned embarrassed and perplexed all at once. Martin smiled at him politely as Jon made his way to the table. He was walking very slowly, and stopped at the edge tersely.

 

“This restaurant almost never has a free table at this hour,” he told Martin. 

 

“Maybe it’s the holidays?” Martin suggested.

 

“ _ Martin _ -” there was something like a warning in Jon’s voice. Martin shrugged. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t been around for a while, and the adjustment period is - well, anyway, nobody is being hurt right now, I swear.”

 

“Apart from the restaurant’s daily income,” Jon muttered. He was still standing.

 

“Just sit, Jon,” Martin said kindly. At Jon’s wary look, he rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, I’m not - If you thought I might be planning anything, why did you even say yes to lunch in the first place?”

 

“I -” Jon sighed, looking frustrated at himself. “I don’t know. It’s clearly dangerous, and also probably a waste of my time since everything leads me to believe you’re not going to give me anything more useful than when we’ve met before but -” he paused, and sighed again. “I suppose I was -  _ curious _ . You’ve been gone a long time.”

 

Martin pondered on that a moment. “I’m - flattered?” he said at last. Jon merely glared. 

 

“Just sit,” he repeated. “You look kind of terrible, you know.”

 

“Thank you,” Jon retorted sarcastically but, after one last moment of consideration, he finally sat down in front of him. 

 

He did, though; look terrible. The bags under his eyes were darker and larger than Martin remembered, his lips chapped, his hair too long, and the tired lines on his face were only rivaled by his tense and defensive posture. It occured to Martin he was curious too; not only about the whole situation, but about Jon. Surely this couldn’t just be about Gertrude’s murder. Jon looked a moment away from crumbling under an invisible weight and kept  _ glancing at everything  _ \- was it the Eye? A mere side-effect of making his way to properly becoming the Archivist?

 

“You don’t - look that good either, actually,” Jon added with a frown. 

 

“Really?” Martin blinked, surprised.

 

“You’re…” Jon seemed to hesitate. “Pale.”

 

“Uh. I guess I haven’t been seeing the sun much.”

 

“... Right. Went a bit North, then?”

 

“South, actually,” Martin corrected. “I know you want to ask Jon, but I really don’t have much to say? Peter - he, um. He needed me, so, I went with him for a while is all.”

 

“If you were going to stay annoyingly vague about everything, why did you ask for us to meet at all?” Jon asked, exasperated. 

 

“Maybe I just wanted to catch up?” Martin hazarded. “How have you been?”

 

“So - what? We’re going to play at being friends then?”

 

“I mean,  _ to be fair,  _ you sort of look like you need a friend right now .”

 

Jon abruptly moved back, as if he’d been struck, and tensed even more, though Martin hadn’t thought it could be possible. 

 

“Is that what this is then? You’re just here to - to play upon my  _ loneliness  _ again?”

 

“What?” Martin stared, taken aback. “No! I mean I -” his mouth felt dry. He unconsciously moved his hand to his chest, rubbing gently, and then stopped himself. He’d almost forgotten - “I just… wanted to see you. Is that so weird?” he asked at last, aghast by the unsure note creeping in his voice. 

 

“I -” Jon looked uncertain as well. His frown deepened. “I don’t know. Is it?”

 

Martin opened his mouth, but he genuinely had no idea what to tell him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to see anyone. It was an odd feeling. It was still a very… real one, however; it was  _ pleasant  _ to see Jon, right now, even like this, distrustful and snarking. In the end, he just vaguely shrugged, warmth gently spreading on the back of his neck. 

 

The waiter came to take their order, and they both picked at random before silence settled again. Eventually, Jon cleared his throat. 

 

“So - what do you do for Peter Lukas, exactly?” 

 

“Paperwork, mostly,” Martin said. “I also go to meet the people he doesn’t like.”

 

Jon snorted. “Sounds… agreeable.”

 

“It’s not so bad, really. And I don’t actually fear for my life every morning so, that’s a bonus.”

 

“That’s -” Jon sighed. “Yeah. That’s definitely a perk. Though, I suppose - not much to fear when you are the one people are afraid of, is it?”

 

“Kinda,” Martin agreed. “Easier when they don’t see you at all.” 

 

“Right.” Jon nodded. “Right.” there was a blank, and then added, slowly, carefully, as if weighing his words: “I had assumed - I’d  _ wondered  _ if your… work was linked to your… peculiar skills.”

 

“Oh no,” said Martin with a small laugh. “That’s just, you know. Private bonus from - joining the family.”

 

“Joining the fam -” Jon paused. “Oh.” he said. “Oh. I didn’t - think you -”

 

He looked suddenly exceedingly embarrassed. Martin felt himself flush bright red, the room spinning slightly.

 

“No, No -” he said, much too quickly. “It’s not - Peter’s married to - he’s married. Not to me. That is. He’s married.” he repeated, and wondered why it felt so wrong to even think of saying the whole truth. 

 

“Ah,” Jon said awkwardly. “I - um, alright.” 

 

He didn’t insist, which was probably for the best, because Martin didn’t think you could lie long to the Archivist without them spotting the wrongness of it. It wasn’t that he’d  _ lied  _ exactly. For lack of any better word, Peter and Elias  _ were  _ married. Peter certainly liked to call Elias his husband, at least, and though Martin had absolutely no desire to linger on the mental image, he knew they probably - well. Anyway. It was a marriage that was more an alliance between powers than any real  _ love _ , but it was still… something. Something of much bigger significance than whatever it was between Peter and him.    

 

“What about you?” he asked, his voice a bit higher than before. “Do you have a, a partner?”

 

Jon bristled, though his cheeks were slightly pink. “You  _ know  _ I don’t.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Martin said weakly. “I - guess I do.”

 

He had to force himself to focus; he’d genuinely forgotten how violent it felt, to be around Jon. He could feel himself sweating a little, his body warm to the point of feverish. It seemed odd that Jon wouldn’t notice, but then again Jon was staring very hard at the table right now - which meant that Martin could discreetly wipe his palms on his napkin. He was silently grateful when food arrived, and he assumed Jon might have been as well, because they both rushed to their plates without a word. 

 

It was rather awkward not to speak now though, so Martin swallowed a bit of steak, took a breath and asked: 

 

“How are your assistants?” because work seemed to be a somewhat safe conversation to have.

 

Jon startled and, for half a second, Martin could feel him aching, deep and bright, though his face was neutral enough when he answered dryly: 

 

“Well, Sasha avoids the Archives and me as much as she can without it being too obvious, and Tim hates me, and his job. They’re having a lovely time.”

 

“I mean, you can’t blame them if you went and followed them -”

 

“I  _ tried  _ asking,” Jon retorted with a frustrated edge.

 

Martin carefully put down his cutlery.

 

“Did you ask, or did you - you know.  _ Ask them? _ ”

 

“What does that even mean?” Jon asked, looking offended. “I didn’t -  _ accuse them…  _ Exactly.”

 

“You still -” Martin bite his lips. The longer Jon didn’t know, the better it was - probably. Maybe? Not for Elias, certainly, but then again, if Elias truly wanted his Archivist active, he’d give him the necessary information himself at some point. He ended up shaking his head and saying: “Bad boss behaviour, Jon.” 

 

“I don’t think being a bad boss is such a big deal when it concerns a matter of life and death,” Jon snapped. 

 

“Maybe not for  _ you _ ,” Martin pointed out.

 

Jon flinched. And then, he sighed, and suddenly, he looked so tired Martin wished - 

 

“I tried firing him,” Jon breathed out.

 

“What? Who?” Martin asked, blinking away from a distracted thought he’d already forgotten. 

 

“ _ Tim.  _ Who else? I tried but I - I  _ couldn’t.  _ And I know he hates this place, he certainly makes no pretense of still liking me, and yet he’s still - he can’t quit either.”

 

“Oh. Well. He signed the contract.”

 

“I’ve read the contract,” Jon said pointedly. “I don’t recall any particular clause saying some unknown - mysterious -  _ instinct  _ means you won’t be able to leave this place.”

 

“Well, if they made it obvious, nobody would apply, would they?” 

 

“Right,” Jon snorted. “Right - obviously.” 

 

He didn’t really look amused, only resigned and angry. Martin hesitated. He felt so  _ warm  _ again… He poured himself and Jon some water, drinking eagerly in hope of cooling down, and then, he tried kindly: 

 

“Maybe he’ll make it, you know. Maybe - Maybe if you all stay… out of things…”

 

Jon only glanced up, aghast: “What are you saying? Don’t do anything, or he’ll die?” 

 

“ _ No.  _ I mean - yes. Kinda? I just… If you don’t go looking for the dangerous things, there might be a chance that they won’t… come looking for you either. There have to be some archival assistants who just happily retired at some point… Probably.”

 

It didn’t seem to comfort Jon very much; Martin had the feeling he must be hearing the lie underneath his weak argument. It was idiotic, probably, but he’d sort of -  _ wanted  _ Jon not to be… scared. Because that was it, wasn’t it? Jon was scared; for himself, for Tim - Maybe, Martin pondered, staring at Jon’s chest, maybe he could… Maybe it’ll be easier, for Jon, if his heart was colder. He’d never tried something like that before, didn’t even know if it was possible without being taken by the Lonely, but maybe... 

 

“You left,” Jon said at last, cutting short Martin’s thoughts. 

 

“What?”

 

“You left,” Jon repeated. His eyes were focused, intense again. “You were an archival assistant, and now you’re not. How?”

 

An unpleasant shiver ran down Martin’s spine. He forced himself to eat another fry. 

 

“I started another job,” he said at last. 

 

“Is that it then? Should I encourage Tim to go back to the publishing world?” 

 

Jon’s tone made it obvious he  _ didn’t  _ think it would be that easy, but Martin still sighed: 

 

“With Peter Lukas. I started another job  _ with Peter Lukas _ . I’m sure you’ve read enough by now to understand the implications.”

 

“Did you -” Jon’s eyes turned softer, almost pitying for a moment. “Were you… attacked?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then  _ why  _ -”

 

“It doesn’t  _ matter,  _ Jon -”

 

“It does to me!” Jon exclaimed, loud and sharp. 

 

Martin felt nauseous; the dizziness forced him to grip at the table, as a new wave of heat passed through him. He closed his eyes a brief second, took a deep breath, and then he said: 

 

“I was fired.” in a thick voice. “By someone that outranks you by far.”

 

“Elias?” Jon asked after a beat, incredulous and wary all at once. “Elias fired you?”

 

Martin laughed; for the first time in years, he was feeling it, properly feeling it, the cold, neutral, crushing stare of the Eye. It drilled in his mind, powerful and inescapable, and he  _ hated  _ it. 

 

“Yeah,” he said Jon. “Yeah, sure.  _ Elias  _ fired me.”

 

“I… see.” Jon murmured, all anger deflated, suddenly pensive.

 

Martin was pretty sure he didn’t. But he didn’t say anything. He was too warm, too bothered, too  _ emotional.  _ He called the fog to him, and the fog came, icy and brutal for a few seconds, until it let Martin relax into its invisible, impersonal embrace. 

 

“Martin,” breathed out Jon.

 

Martin glanced at him. Jon’s heart was beating so fast; his blood was so warm, so caring, underneath all that sharp, distant exterior. He  _ cared.  _ How odd that must be; how painful. 

 

“Martin,” he repeated, between his teeth. “Stop it.”

 

“Mm?” 

 

Jon wasn’t  _ made  _ for the Lonely, exactly; but maybe the Lonely could help him on his path to becoming the Archivist. Maybe, maybe, with just a little ice on his heart, Martin could both help an ally, and stop whatever else was happening at the same time. Willingly or not, Jon was pulling him towards  _ something,  _ and it hurt Martin; but if Martin  _ pulled back,  _ just a bit - 

 

“ _ Stop it. _ ” 

 

Jon grabbed his hand violently. Martin choked on nothing, and stared at him with wide eyes. 

 

“You said you weren’t planning anything,” Jon hissed. He was pale, and trembling.

 

“I - I wasn’t -”

 

“I just felt like nobody would ever smile at me ever again; like I should  _ enjoy it.  _ That certainly didn’t come from  _ me,  _ Martin, and besides, your little - stunt from last time hasn’t been forgotten. Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

 

Martin stared at their hands, troubled. Jon’s had goosebumps. Martin’s looked burnt.

 

“I just - I think I wanted to help,” he said quietly.

 

“By stripping me of any hope of joy ever again?” Jon asked sarcastically. 

 

“ _ No,  _ I -” Martin looked up to him helplessly. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m  _ sorry.  _ Being -”  _ around you  _ “here, it’s. Harder than - it used to be.”

 

“Then perhaps you should leave again,” Jon suggested, lips pursed.

 

Martin took a sharp breath at the rejection; it  _ stung.  _ But was it good or bad? It should be good - it should  _ feel good… _

 

“Maybe,” he breathed out. “Yeah.”

 

He didn’t move, though, and neither did Jon, at least not for a very long minute, until the cheery doorbell of the restaurant resonated in the empty place. They both startled and turned to stare at the group of people who’d just entered, chatting happily between them. Jon tensed up abruptly, his fingers squeezing Martin’s just a bit too tight before abruptly jerking away.

 

“Should… we worry?” Martin hazarded. 

 

“What? No,” Jon’s eyes flickered to the group. “It’s, ah - they’re… Old colleagues.” 

 

“Oh. That’s nice then?”

 

Jon didn’t answer, but Martin felt it; a pang of nostalgia and yearning, not so much for the people - never had been that close to them, because Jon never got close to  _ anybody  _ \- but for the simplicity of what he’d had then, just a year ago. And, deeper, curled tightly on itself and hidden by several layers of denial, there was envy, too, curiosity for what it must be like, to be part of a group of people, happy and sure of your place among them. Martin’s eyes fluttered; he wanted to dig, explore that, but then again, Jon looked uncomfortable and like he wanted to run before they were noticed, and one of the group members was finally turning their head towards them… 

 

Martin grabbed Jon’s hand again, and concentrated.

 

The man who’d spotted Jon, and who was already opening his mouth, eyebrows raised high, blinked several times, rattled and confused, before someone else pulled on his sleeve and he turned away, glancing back at their table a few times before finally shaking his head and moving on. 

 

“Ah,” Jon said after a bit. “That - That is -” 

 

“Odd?”

 

“Unpleasant.”

 

“Oh. Do you - want me to stop?”

 

“No.” Jon looked surprised and pained at his own admission. “Let’s just -” he took a breath. “Let’s just leave this place. Why are they - I thought you were keeping people away?”

 

“Excuse-me for getting a bit  _ distracted. _ ” 

 

“ _ Right _ .” 

 

Without another look, Jon awkwardly turned around to go look for something in his jacket - presumably his wallet - his hand still trapped by Martin’s. 

 

“I can pay,” said Martin, a little bit uselessly.

 

“You did last time.” Jon put money unto the table, and then he hastily got up, pulling Martin with him at the same time. “Let’s just leave.” he repeated.

 

They got out fast and in silence, Jon staring at people around them with eager, uneasy curiosity; Martin’s mouth tasted slightly bitter even as he felt more and more energized, walking hand in hand towards the Archives, Jon’s whole soul screaming  _ something is wrong  _ as nobody paid any attention to them. 

 

“Okay,” Jon said, after a minute or two, as he narrowly avoided colliding with someone who was looking straight at him without  _ seeing  _ him. “Okay, this is enough.”

 

It  _ wasn’t,  _ some part of Martin thought, but he ignored it. Jon’s shoulders relaxed considerably the moment people started to be aware of their presence again. At least it did right until they turned the corner of the street and they came almost face to face with Tim Stoker, who made an unconscious gesture to save his ice cream. 

 

“Oh for christ’s  _ sake - _ ” muttered Jon dejectedly.

 

“Didn’t know you still dared to go outside, boss,” Tim replied sarcastically. “Aren’t you afraid someone’s just waiting for you to -” He blinked as his eyes fell on Jon and Martin’s hands. “Uh.”

 

_ Oh _ , thought Martin. That’s right. They hadn’t stopped doing that. Jon seemed to realize this at the same time, horrified, and promptly let go of Martin’s fingers once more. Tim snorted. For a brief moment, he looked genuinely amused.

 

“I can’t say I imagined you jumping from date to date like that, I’ll be honest. What happened to the cute cop? I swear she was still around, like, two weeks ago.”

 

“I - uh - this is not - I  _ told you  _ Basira and I weren’t -”

 

“Suure,” said Tim, and took a spoonful of his ice cream, his gaze turning colder again. “And I’m sure holding Martin Blackwood’s hand is necessary to figure out Gertrude’s murder… how again?”

 

Jon opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it; Martin though, raised his eyebrows. 

 

“You remember who I am,” he said, pleasantly surprised.

 

“Well, you pulled quite a number with your vanishing act last time,” Tim told him. “Gotta say though, as far as creepy things go, you definitely don’t even reach the ankle of the flesh hive monster that tried to kill us.”

 

“Tim don’t -” Jon started quietly, but Martin only grinned and shrugged: “fair enough.”

 

Jon gave him an affronted look. Martin’s heart missed a beat, and then suddenly it was pounding in his chest, too hard and too fast, and he clutched at his shirt abruptly, gasping for air. A new wave of nausea hit him and he shuddered violently.

 

“Well - anyway -”he said, his voice too high, his cheeks too warm. “I’m just - going to let you two - go back to work -”

 

“Right,” Jon exclaimed, bit too forceful, though he was now frowning slightly at Martin again. “Work.”

 

“Yay,” Tim said flatly.

 

“I - uh - Martin…”

 

“See you, Jon,” Martin gasped. His brain was muddled with something he didn’t recognize (anymore?) and it  _ hurt  _ all the more for it... “Tim.”

 

Tim nodded; Jon opened his mouth again; Martin fled, since it was apparently what he did best nowadays.

 

\--------------------

He stared at the yellow door tucked in right next to his bed. He remembered that the first time he’d seen it, he’d almost walked through it without another thought; it was just so  _ normal,  _ it hadn’t registered to him that there had never been another door in the old document storage room until he had his hand on the handle. From the other side, he’d heard a laugh - a grating, terrible sound, that had made him recoil as fast as he could. His first instinct had been to call Gertrude, of course, but Gertrude barely appeared in the archives, those days; mourning, he’d thought at the time, because he used to be such a fool.  _ Mourning.  _

 

So, instead, he’d asked: “Hello?”

 

_ Hello. _

 

He stared at the yellow door, warm and shivering, sitting on his bed and wondering if perhaps there wasn’t some wisdom to take from someone who had known him yet didn’t know him at all. It was always  _ here _ , after all. Michael wasn’t kind, but he knew things, and he would probably not directly lie to him. Probably. 

 

Was it the third or the fourth time, that Martin had finally stayed long enough to watch the door open, in the Archives? By that point, he’d understood who he would see behind it, but he hadn’t been prepared like he thought he was. It was Michael’s face, but it wasn’t  _ Michael.  _ It was his voice, except for all the ways it wasn’t; It certainly wasn’t his smile. Michael’s smile had always been gentle and a bit shy.

 

“How dare you?” Martin had asked, voice trembling with anger and grief. “You have no right - to wear his face -”

 

“That is my face,” had said Michael, with that horrible, horrible smile. “And that was Michael’s face. But then again, I am Michael.”

 

“No, you’re not.” Martin had said, voice thick. “You’re not him.”

 

And Michael had blinked, and nodded. “Mm. No. No, I am, but I am not. Very clever of you, Martin. I wonder, if you can see that, why you haven’t seen yet -”

 

“Seen what?”

 

“Gertrude Robinson, Martin. You haven’t seen  _ The Archivist. _ ”

 

“I don’t - what are you trying to say? Did… Did you do something to her?”

 

Oh, Michael had laughed; and laughed, and laughed; and  _ laughed; _

 

Martin had wanted to laugh at his old self too, a few months later, but he hadn’t remembered how. He knew that Michael would have joined in, because after his first boat trip, the door had been there, in his flat, waiting. But by then - it was too late. 

 

Was it still too late? Michael wasn’t Michael, but Martin wasn’t Martin anymore either. If they had to not entirely be who they’d once been for the rest of their… lives (eternity? For Michael? Martin had never asked…), then maybe, it was time one of them opened the door again. Maybe… 

 

His phone rang just as he stood up, hand raised to knock at the door. He froze, glanced down at it, and hesitated, before he finally reached for it. 

 

“Was leaving me alone with Tim to deal with that rather uncomfortable meeting some sort of - trick of yours?” Jon immediately asked as soon as he’d taken the call. 

 

Martin sat again; his legs were not as steady as he wished them to be right now.

 

“You don’t sound  _ that  _ rattled,” he pointed out. “So I assume Tim hasn’t been pestering you so much.”

 

“... I  _ suppose, _ ” Jon said. “Still. I can’t help but notice this is the third time you abruptly leave without any apparent reason. Care to explain? Or are you just going to disappear for a few months again?”

 

“Would you miss me?” Martin asked thoughtlessly.

 

There was a beat of silence. A cold, electric shiver ran through Martin’s spine. 

  
  


“No, I won’t leave again,” he ended up saying, clearing his throat. “I mean, unless Peter needs me somewhere, I suppose, but he’s been prone to forget about me for a while before.”

 

“... Right.” said Jon. After another few quiet seconds, he continued: “Martin… You’re not -” Even at distance, Martin could imagine the pained expression on his face: “You haven’t been…  _ cursed  _ or something like that, have you?”

 

Martin’s lips trembled but, to his merit, he did not laugh. 

 

“No, Jon. I’m not  _ cursed.  _ Had a pretty nice fairy godmother, I guess; never gave me a curfew or anything like that.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Jon muttered. “It isn’t  _ that  _ far-stretched nowadays to assume…”

 

“I am  _ almost  _ a hundred percent sure that the evils of our world don’t bother with curses.” Martin told him kindly.

 

“Ha. Of course. That would imply that you can be cured after all, wouldn’t it?”

 

Martin blinked, staring at the yellow door. Warmth had spread from his belly to the back of his neck again, and he felt his mouth go dry. “Yes,” he said. “Yeah, that would, wouldn’t it? No curse, no cure -”

 

“A very hopeful way to see things,” Jon noted dryly.

 

Martin laughed; and laughed; and  _ laughed.  _

 

“I… Didn’t think I was being particularly funny,” Jon said, baffled, after a minute.

 

“It’s not - I just…” Martin’s breathing was hard. He moved slowly to lay down on his bed. “I had a very absurd thought,” he told Jon at last. “But it was just that. An absurdity.”

 

“... If you say so.” Jon said dubiously.

 

“You should go back to work, Jon.”

 

“I - fine. Don’t… be a stranger, Martin.”

 

“Careful,” Martin breathed out, black spots dancing through his eyes. “You make it sound like we may be friends.”

 

“Don’t push it,” Jon muttered. “Goodbye, Martin.”

 

Martin closed his eyes. “Goodbye, Jon.”

 

He could have sworn he’d heard a terrible, terrible laugh coming from his left. He did not turn his head to check. Perhaps he did not want to open the yellow door just yet.

 

\--------------------

When Martin woke up the next morning, Peter was sitting on his bed, thoughtful. Martin sighed. 

 

“Shoes, Peter.” He muttered.

 

“Ah, yes, terribly sorry, I always forget,” Peter said with a smile that was nowhere near sorry. He curled a strand of Martin’s hair around his finger, and added, with a voice that was much too sweet: “Well, how do you feel then, Martin? Are you ready to go back to work?”

 

“How long has it been? I didn’t think to check.”

 

“Time is so volatile, dear. Three, four months?”

 

“Didn’t think of hiring someone else?”

 

“ _ Martin _ ,” Peter scowled - if Martin didn’t know better, he could have sworn he was genuinely offended at the suggestion. “You know I couldn’t find anyone as suited to the position as you.”

 

It was wrong, but Martin still felt it; that pleased little shiver down his back; he knew Peter had, too, because his hand moved further down, the tip of his fingers caressing Martin’s cheek. Martin hesitated, but he turned towards Peter anyway and towards his icy palm.

 

“I’m ready,” he told him. “I just hope you’ve thought of clearing up your email box -”

 

Peter chuckled. 

 

“I’ve  _ shown you _ before,” Martin sighed.

 

“So you did, so you did,” Peter grinned. “I’m very happy, Martin,” he added, his hand suddenly gripping Martin’s jaw, just a bit too tight; bit too possessive. “I’m very happy with you.”

 

He was gone into the fog before Martin could reply anything to that.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I am very much willing and delighted by everybody that wants to stop by on [my Tumblr ](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/) to talk to me about TMA.


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